


the courage of stars

by griffenly



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-08
Updated: 2015-07-26
Packaged: 2018-04-03 10:06:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 18,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4096885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/griffenly/pseuds/griffenly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They disagree on most things, but they agree on this: it begins, officially, under a star-studded sky in the middle of April, when she and him become two halves of the same whole. </p><p>or, the Grounder!Bellamy and Sky Person!Clarke arranged marriage fic</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is for the ever-wonderful Cindy (blakebellcmy on tumblr) for my writing giveaway! I don't know how many parts this will be yet, probably around 4-5, but I hope you all enjoy! I kept some of the same plotlines in the beginning (hence the first few lines), and so most of this is canon facts minus Bellamy and Octavia's existence on the Ark, obviously.

It begins, she thinks, staring at a boy with the universe mapped across his cheekbones, with a metal deathtrap careening towards Earth in a ring of fire, with two dead boys and a gaggle of unprepared children.

It begins, he thinks, watching an angel in a white dress float towards him with ice in her eyes and fire in her veins, with a spear to the chest and a torrent of blonde hair, with the promise of peace.

They disagree on most things, he finds. They disagree about the best approach to the men inhabiting the mountain, they disagree about her people’s willingness to accept _his_ people’s traditions. Where she is optimistic, he is cynical; where he has seen the earth, she has lived amongst the stars.

(To him, she is a star in itself, burning so bright it threatens to blind him.)

They stand across each other, a bouquet of wildflowers clenched in her small hands. She is willing herself not to shake. _I am not afraid_. He is appraising her, but his eyes never leave her face. They are dark and murky and she wishes she could read the sentiment that is lying dormant behind the armored mask he has erected against her, wishes she could understand him. The man at the altar is speaking, but she can’t decipher the words. ( _He_ can understand perfectly, but he makes no move to translate for her.)

He slips a knotted piece of twine around her finger, and she does the same to him.

They disagree on most things. He prefers the moon, and she the sun. He can’t sleep, most nights, and she wakes at dawn. He likes tea and she drinks coffee by the barrel.

They disagree on most things, but they agree on this: it begins, officially, under a star-studded sky in the middle of April, when she and him become two halves of the same whole.

* * *

 

It happens a bit like this:

There is a war looming on the horizon, like the far-distant sunset ghosting across the tree line. Abby is furious when Clarke enters the room, her back ramrod straight and her nails digging into the wood of the council’s table. The door bangs shut loudly behind her, and although it is silent in the room, no one flinches. The Commander is seated across from where Abby is standing, a placid expression upon her face, and there are two people behind her - a man, with freckles marring his tanned face and black rimming his eyes, his jaw clenched; and a woman, dark-skinned with eyes that scream of war and destruction. There is another girl, younger than the Commander, even, with long dark hair and fiercely blue eyes, and not one of them look at her as she sidles up beside her mother.

She knows it is bad before Abby opens her mouth.

“There’s no way I can change your mind?” she bites out to the Grounder clan in front of her, and her voice tastes like acid.

“We have established our terms,” the Commander says, and it sounds as though this has been repeated multiple times. Clarke glances between them, attempting to discern what is happening, what could possibly be the terms this young girl ( _a child_ , Abby had lamented, _they are being led by a child_ ) has set for the peace treaty. Abby sighs mournfully and pinches the bridge of her nose, fixing Clarke with a look that is far too apologetic for her liking.

“Clarke,” she begins slowly, “the Commander has said that in order for the treaty to be accepted, we need a marriage to take place. To solidify the pact.” Clarke nods slowly.

(She knows it is bad, she knows she knows _she knows_.)

“They ask that you be one half of this marriage ceremony.”

Clarke swallows, a heavy, leaden thing, and she can feel the anxiety crawling up her flesh, but she refuses to let it show. She is iron and steel. She can do this. Sucking in a calming breath which steadies her voice, she asks, “Why me?”

Abby gives her a look that is entirely pity, that is heartbreak and devastation and anguish encapsulated. “Because you’re our leader,” she says quietly, as though admitting a great secret. The words sound more like something she is supposed to say, rather than something she believes. “In their eyes, you’re our leader. And to have our leader be aligned with one of their most revered... it would be a great honor.”

( _So are we_ , Kane had told Abby, all those days ago. _So are we_.)

“And who am I to marry?”

Abby appears shocked by the tenacity of her own daughter, by the stoic tone to her voice. She looks to the Commander, and the girl - _a child_ \- nods. The man behind her steps forward, the face which was previously enshrouded in darkness now lit starkly by the harsh lights of the Ark. He is tall, with dark, unruly hair and eyes the color of the fire after it has been burning for too long, but there is no warmth in his gaze. There is calculation, and obedience.

“His name is Bellamy,” the Commander tells her, lazily, as though she is not about to be committed to him for life. As though this is a simple nothing. “He is our finest warrior, and has been my second for quite some time, now.” Bellamy grunts to acknowledge the praise, and he shifts on his feet, obviously uncomfortable with it.

“Clarke,” Abby whispers, “you don’t have to do this. If it makes you uncomfortable -”

“Mom, we’ve been fighting the Grounders since we crash-landed here a month go. We’ve...” She swallows. “We lost so many, because of this. And there’s a war we need to be fighting. A war... a war that we _can’t_ do without this.” She lifts her head, staring straight into the coldness of the Commander’s eyes first, and then into Bellamy’s. She thinks she sees a flicker of something, there, and so she tears her gaze away.

“I’ll do it,” she tells the Commander. Her voice does not waver. Her hands do not shake. “I’ll do it.”

* * *

 

It happens a bit like this:

The Commander calls him into her tent early that morning. They are set to visit the Sky People that day, to discuss their terms. Bellamy enters and finds the tent empty, an unusual sight, and clears his throat. “You asked for me?”

The Commander turns, and he catches her mask of indifference half-off her face, concern etched into her irises. She masks it quickly, shaking her head a bit, and nods once. “Yes, Bellamy. There’s something I need to discuss with you.” Her voice is clipped, and she gestures for him to come forward. She is glancing at the maps Lincoln had made months ago. She sighs once and then reattaches her attention to him rather than the battle plans that are likely twisting about her brain.

“Today we are establishing the terms for the treaty with the Sky People, as you are aware,” she says slowly, and he nods. “We... I should say, _I_ have decided that it would be in the best interest for both sides to have a marriage ceremony between a member of our clan and their leader, to establish a true bridge between our two groups.” She tilts her head ever so slightly as a show of power. “Do you understand what I am saying?”

He has been asked to fight and die for his Commander. To kill and murder for his Commander. He would do so in a heartbeat - for her, or for his sister. He would have done it for his mother, as well. This is a tight circle, one he has prided himself upon.

He has never been asked to expand that list.

“Yes,” he says, and he hopes the Commander cannot detect the hesitance in his voice.

“I have selected you because you are my most trusted warrior,” she continues, and her voice picks up speed, as though she is worried he will deny her. “And because I believe you will handle this role not only with dignity, but also with respect for their people. I... I worry, that in the hands of another, the Sky Princess would be... _mistreated.”_

(He knows. Oh, gods, how he knows.)

He pauses, contemplating her offer. _I am not afraid._ “I’ll do it,” he tells her.

The small smile she rewards him is one filled with relief. “Thank you, Bellamy.”

Later, hours later, when the Sky Princess enters the room with her head held high and terror in her eyes (but not in her face - no, she is smart, this Princess), she repeats the same words he had uttered to her mother. She repeats the words, and she looks him in the eye, and he wonders if this is where it actually, truly begins.

* * *

 

They are married beneath a sky that is pockmarked by the stars. He can trace the constellations in his mind, can remember the stories his mother had once whispered to him. He wonders if he will ever tell Clarke these stories. If he will tell their children.

(He has to count to fifty to calm his breathing, after that thought.)

They are married, and she’s wearing a white dress, and she looks like a goddess, like a siren floating down the aisle to him. Nyko says the traditional vows, and they both repeat them, Clarke stumbling on the words a bit, but trying valiantly. They slip matching rings onto their fingers.

The flowers in her hand are blue, and he thinks they match her eyes.

They are married, and they walk back down the aisle together, her hand tucked into his arm, and he thinks of how small she is, how fragile, and yet she walks with a determination he had not anticipated. She holds her head high, like she did just a few days ago, and he wonders how heavy the burden of the world is, sitting upon this young girl’s shoulders.

They enter their tent together very late that night, and her eyes are barely open, she is so tired. She gingerly deposits the bouquet on the table, but he doesn’t question her. “You can take the bed,” he says quietly. “I’ll just be right over here, and -”

“Are you serious?” she asks, and when he looks up at her, Clarke’s eyes are blown wide, her face a mixture of amusement and bewilderment. When he doesn’t respond, she scoffs. “No, no, no. We can share.” He stares. “ _Seriously_. It... it isn’t a big deal. We’re married, right?”

It’s only then that he can hear the fear in her voice, the uncertainty. He wonders how she does this - how, so simply, she embraces this situation and him - when any other in her position would be cruel and maybe a bit bitter. Would probably not even speak to him, let alone be kind.

They disagree on most things, and he wonders if it is because the world has not made her hard, yet, like it has built him of stone.

And so he falls beside her on the bed, their backs pressed together, and he murmurs a soft _thank you_ into the pillow, so quiet he almost hopes she doesn’t hear it.

And she presses her face into her pillow and whispers _goodnight_.

They are married.


	2. Chapter 2

There are certain things he knows to be true.

He will protect Octavia, always.

He will serve his Commander, always.

But Clarke Griffin of the Sky People? Clarke Griffin, the Princess who danced amongst the stars - he isn’t sure about her, quite yet.

The morning after their marriage (he is _married_ , tethered to another human being for life), he wakes before her. He tries not to notice the way she looks when she sleeps, all rumpled and content, a half-smile hovering at the corners of her lips and her face pressed into the tiny pillow, her body curled into itself as though shielding it from harm. He hesitates, slightly, by her side, before shaking his head and swiftly departing their tent.

 _Their_ tent.

Christ.

He stumbles into the mess hall, where Octavia is sitting beside Lincoln, a pensive frown marring her features, and he makes a beeline towards them, collapsing gracelessly across from the couple. Their conversation ceases immediately, and he gives his sister a glare that informs her that, _yeah, I know you were just talking about me, cut the shit_.

“Well,” Octavia says cheerfully, pushing over a mug of steaming tea, “how’s married life?”

“I hate you, you know that?” Bellamy mumbles, accepting the tea gratefully and taking ginger sips. “But it’s fine. She’s…” He pauses. He wants to tell his baby sister about it all - about the defiance he can feel rumbling beneath her bones, about the kindness that somehow has not been ripped from her tender flesh yet. But he can’t do that. Not yet. Not when he isn’t _sure_. “She’s fine.”

Octavia nods, eyes searching his face as though for a hint of a lie, and apparently comes up empty. “Fine. I have to go work with Indra on something for a bit,” she says, standing, and she drops a kiss to Lincoln’s lips and playfully ruffles her brother’s hair before departing the table.

Lincoln is quiet for a few moments. Then, tentatively, as if speaking to a spooked animal, he murmurs, “She isn’t bad, you know. Clarke.”

Bellamy looks up, stares at the man that will be his brother-in-law, inevitably. (It’s a question of _when_ more than _if_ at this point, and Bellamy may hate it, but he isn’t a goddamned idiot.) “How do you know?” he asks, his voice soft.

“She’s a healer, with her people. And so is her mother, the Chancellor.” At this, Lincoln pauses, and Bellamy nods. He _knows_ this. “But… but her people, they aren’t willing… willing to embrace our methods. They deem them to be beneath them, too _primitive_.” Bellamy’s jaw clenches, and he doesn’t miss the way Lincoln’s voice takes on a slight edge. “But Clarke… Clarke wants to learn so desperately. She has lost, too, Bellamy. She has lost many. Her people sent her down here to die, and she just wants to know how to save them.”

Bellamy hesitates, uncertain about Lincoln’s words. And then he says, “You talk like you know her.”

Lincoln’s eyes are hard and cold and unflinching when he murmurs, “We all know loss, Bellamy. Don’t undermine or forget hers simply because it is different than our own.” He stands up abruptly, giving Bellamy one final, meaningful look, before leaving him alone at the table, the mug of tea growing cold.

* * *

 

She wakes and she is alone, her body covered in goosebumps from throwing the thin blanket away from her during the night. Clarke rubs her eyes, groaning softly at the rays of light streaming in through the thin fabric of the tent, and glances around her new home. _Home home home_. (She tastes the word on her tongue, but all she can think about is the dropship, where hundreds of scorched Grounders lay at her feet, where Wells was buried.) She is not alone for long, though, a body shoving its way through the flaps of the tent, and she can recognize his voice already, muttering words to himself that she can’t comprehend quite yet. (She’s _working_ on it, alright?)

But he stops the moment he realizes she’s awake, clearing his throat slightly. “You sleep okay?” he asks, and his voice is gentle, and it throws her off guard for a brief moment.

“Yeah. Yeah, I slept fine.” She tucks an unruly curl behind her ear. “Thank you, by the way.” He still hasn’t moved from his spot by the opening, and his brow furrows in confusion. It’s fucking _adorable_ , and she hates herself, a little bit, and then reproaches herself _again_ because, well - _married_ , right? But the Grounder paint is gone, and he looks so human like this, so _real_ , and it gives her pause.

“For what?” he asks, his voice barely above a whisper.

Clarke clears her throat, tucking the same strand behind her ear, a nervous habit. “For… I don’t know. For not treating me like an alien, or something? For not…” She groans, trying to find the words, and she notices the slightest curve to his lips. “For not judging me based upon my people.” She crosses her legs, knotting her fingers together and laying them in her lap, and she bites her lip in anticipation of his response.

And she means the words. She knows the reputation of the Sky People - she knows of the ignorance, of the cruelty, of their past altercations. (She remembers trying to heal a terrified and quaking Jasper, his body willing itself to end its tireless battle. She remembers the blood pouring from their eyes and ears, she remembers dragging the bodies of children into mass graves. She _knows_.) And it is because of this that she realizes the potential for violence, the potential damage he could have done to her. It was the reason Abby was petrified, the reason Raven bit her lip throughout the ceremony, the reason Monty clung to Miller’s arm in utter fear when the rings were slipped onto their fingers.

She knows it could have been much, much worse.

And she needs _him_ to know that she’s grateful.

It is then that he moves forward and sits on the edge of the bed, gently, as though afraid to scare her. She is still trying to understand him, this tall, looming shadow of a man, with ghosts in his eyes that he doesn’t look ready to touch, with fire in his blood that he is trying to tame. He should terrify her. He should make her feel so small, so insignificant. But he does things like _this_ \- like giving her space, and offering to sleep on the floor - and… and she can see the mask cracking, just the slightest bit. “You don’t need to thank me,” he tells her, and his voice is soft. “It…” He pauses, as though remembering something, and he finally, finally looks her in the eyes when he says his next words. “You are doing what you can, to save your people. You have done all you can, most of the time. I don’t blame you for what you - or your people - have done in that regard.”

She offers him a tremulous smile. _Forgiveness_? it seems to ask.

He smiles back, a crooked, bashful thing, and she wonders if this is where it begins - truly. A pact of peace. A pact of togetherness.

 _I can give you that_ , his seems to respond.

She was born with stardust on her fingertips and wildfire in her bones, and he was forged from iron and steel and the coldness of the dirt she tramples with her boots. And so she takes his hand in her own, their fingers molding together, and it isn’t anything - a tiny nothing, really - but she can feel the flames on her flesh, and she hopes he can feel the way the stars slits his skin, when he tries to hold on to them.

Maybe they are not so different, after all.

 


	3. Chapter 3

Things are different, after that.

It’s the little things, really. Clarke sitting beside him as they eat dinner, and the way her thigh presses against his, a solid reminder that she is _here_ , she is _his_ , at least technically. Clarke laying her head on his shoulder, as if it’s nothing, as if she would do this with anyone. Which, to be fair, she _does_ , because she’s fucking exhausted all the time. He tells her this, once, and she shrugs. “We all have our duties,” she tells him around a yawn, joining him on their bed, curling up like a cat, like she did that first night, except now she faces him. She closes her eyes, and it makes him smile, a bit, this comfort she somehow manages to find with him. “You wage wars, I save lives. If me not sleeping manages to keep one of my people alive… so be it.”

He still worries, though, about the dark smudges beneath her eyes. He tells himself he’s being an idiot, that he shouldn’t even care, but… but he remembers the way her fingers felt laced with his, the way she smiled at him like a broken girl, not like the fearsome leader his people always spoke of. It reminded him, then, that she was just like him. A bit damaged, perhaps. A little bit undone.

It is comforting, in a twisted way.

He also notices the way her gaze catches on him for a bit too long, sometimes. The way she tears her eyes away, shaking her head, the pensive furrow between her brows disappearing as she continues the conversation she is having. It does funny things to him, knowing she is watching him. (He watches her, too, all that golden hair and pale skin and blue, blue eyes, and he swears it isn’t anything.)

(He’s a goddamned liar.)

But it’s nearly two weeks after their wedding that he realizes she still has her bouquet in a tiny glass jar on the table, and she adds water to it every day, tending to the flowers with more care than Bellamy thinks he’s handled anything. He watches her from the bed, the singular flame burning brightly beside him as he handles a weathered copy of a book she had managed to scrounge up from her people the other day. (“You said you liked history,” she had said, shrugging nonchalantly, as though she hadn’t stowed away a piece of information he had handed out lazily before they fell asleep the other night.)

“Why do you keep them?” he asks curiously, and she stops watering and turns to him, slowly.

“The flowers?” she clarifies, and he nods. Clarke seems a bit uncomfortable, and he frowns. She clears her throat and says, “I’d never seen flowers, before I came to earth. On the Ark, in space… we never had them. And I’ve only ever seen a few since I’ve been down here.” She shrugs. “I think they’re beautiful. I just… I like finding the beautiful things, on Earth. They’re few and far between, but they’re here, you know?”

Bellamy is staring at her, his mouth slightly ajar, because how did he end up here? With _her_ , with this golden-haired girl who could fit easily into the stories about the gods and goddesses his mother had once told him? With a girl who found flowers to be one of the greatest beauties in this world?

He wonders if she realizes that she is one of those enigmatic beauties the Earth rarely offers up. So beautiful, so special, that the sky couldn’t even bear to hold her in its grip anymore. He nods. “Yeah,” he says quietly as she slips into bed beside him. “Yeah, I know.”

* * *

 

Things are different.

She doesn’t notice for a little while, really. Not until he mentions that he always liked history, and she steals one of her mother’s books from a long-forgotten nook in the Council Room, and her heart contracts at the look of awe he sends her way. Not until she tells him about how much she loves flowers, and she slowly starts finding them all around her - left on her desk in the med bay, on their table in the tent, tucked behind her ear as he walks past. It makes her smile every goddamned time, something she thought she had long forgotten how to do. His sister gives her knowing looks, and Raven raises a singular eyebrow, and she rolls her eyes at the both of them (who get along _startlingly_ well, if Clarke says so herself).

But things are different, and she thinks she likes it.

And, yet, some things are very much the same.

There is still war on the horizon. There is still a battle to be won. Clarke meets with the Commander that afternoon, exchanging polite pleasantries about her newfound marriage before diving into the planning for battle. It lasts hours, and by the end, Clarke is starving, exhausted, and ready to fucking _murder_ someone.

Which is why it is truly a testament to how bad her day is, that Finn sidles up to her just as she’s exiting the Commander’s tent. “Clarke, I don’t think this is a good idea,” he says, jumping right into it, and she pinches the bridge of her nose. She spins and stops, forcing Finn to stumble a bit as he stops, as well, and stands in front of her.

“ _What_ is not a good idea, Finn?” she asks, her tone clipped, and she really does _not_ have time for this.

“Your marriage. To that _Grounder_.” (He says it with such venom, with such hatred, that it makes Clarke stop for a moment.)

“You’re the one who wanted peace with them,” she tells him slowly, trying to comprehend his change of heart. “You’re the one who told me I was crazy for not wanting to associate with them, in the beginning. And now that I have come around and realized my mistakes, now that I am trying to rescue the rest of our friends… _now_ you’re telling me it’s a bad plan?”

He shifts on his feet uncertainly. “I don’t think it’s a good idea,” he repeats, and Clarke stares at him, open-mouthed.

“Go find your girlfriend, Finn.” Her voice is ice, slipping between his shoulder blades. He looks taken aback, but she does not budge. Clarke crosses her arms across her chest and stands her ground, refusing to be bullied into this, refusing to listen to this bullshit.

“She’s not -"

“I don’t fucking _care_. Get out of my face, please. I don’t have time for this.”

“Clarke, please, just… just listen to me a minute,” he says, and he sounds desperate, running a hand through his too-long hair.

“You don’t _know_ him!” she yells, turning on him and shoving her finger to his chest. “You don’t know him, and you act like you do, and… and, _fuck_ , Finn, he’s not some imbecile! He’s a person, a _good_ person!”

“These people captured us and hurt us and have killed our friends. They’ve tried to kill us so many times, and now… now you’re just marrying one of them? _Becoming_ one of them?”

“Finn, is this about _me_ or is this about _you_?” she asks calmly. When he doesn’t respond, she nods. “That’s what I thought.” She turns on her heel and disappears into the night, rage bubbling beneath her skin.

(She doesn’t see Bellamy, poised just out of sight, his hands clenched into fists.)

(She doesn’t know how much he heard.)

* * *

 

The words from the boy’s mouth are still revolving around his brain.

(He can hear Clarke’s, too, but for some reason he is fixating on this other kid - _Spacewalker_ , they called him.)

He can still hear the way the boy had spat _Grounders_ , like it was acid. Like he was beneath this precious _Spacewalker_.

 _Is this about_ me _or is this about_ you _?_ Clarke had asked, and Bellamy didn’t know what that meant. Why would it be about him? Why was he denying the existence of a girlfriend? Why -

He stops in his pacing of their tent ( _their their their, their tent, their life_ ) because he knows, suddenly. He knows exactly why that fucking Spacewalker was so goddamned concerned with the Princess. Bellamy tells himself the feeling coursing through his veins is merely anger, because jealousy is not a word he knows. Jealousy doesn’t apply to him, and it certainly doesn’t apply to him in regards to the Princess.

She comes into the tent with steam practically rolling from her ears, taking off her jacket and tossing it to the floor with far too much vigor. She’s muttering incoherently, and he finds he’s worried about her, suddenly, but the rage under his skin is overpowering his more rational instincts at that moment.

“Who is that Finn kid, to you?” he bites out sharply.

She freezes in her action of taking off her boots, removing the one that is halfway off before turning around slowly. “No one,” she says, and it’s honest - he can see it in her eyes, in her stance. But the rage is still there, and it burns.

“No one?” he repeats, and his voice is too bitter for his own liking, too _much_ , and he wants to stop but he can’t make himself. “He didn’t seem like no one.”

“What the _fuck_ are you talking about?” she asks, and there’s genuine confusion on her face. _Stop, Bellamy. Stop before it’s too late. Stop before you can’t turn back._

“I heard you two! I heard you two talking, and he… he acts like we’re fucking _savages_ , like…” He runs a hand through his hair and restarts his pacing. “And he is obviously in _love_ with you, Clarke, so if you’re _fucking_ him on the side, or something, I’d rather you just -”

“ _Excuse me_?” she shrieks. “Have you lost your mind?”

 “I know what I saw,” he says, a bit more calmly. (The fire is stil there, lacing his words with gasoline, torching the tiny bit of hope he’d managed to erect when it came to the Princess.)

“Yeah, well, clearly not,” she bites out. “Let me fucking _explain_ the situation to you before you jump to conclusions, yeah?” He clenches his jaw. “Finn and I were together. Briefly. But then his _girlfriend_ came flying down in a metal deathtrap, all by herself, and I ended things, because I don’t particularly like being made the other woman.” Bellamy freezes, and, shit, how could he have been so _stupid_? There is unmasked pain in her voice, as though she is picking at an unhealed scab, tearing at the broken flesh, and he wants to tell her _stop, I’m sorry, stop_ , but he can’t. “And he went right back to her, when she came back, and yet still tried to talk to me, tried to be with me. His girlfriend dumped his sorry ass, and we are now friends, because _she_ had the decency not to hate me for what I did to her. And, yeah, Finn might still be in love with me, but that’s not really a factor at this point is it?”

She’s breathing heavily, and he makes a move towards her slowly, so as not to make her back away. “I’m sorry,” he says quietly, and the words taste foreign on his tongue. “I… I didn’t know.” (The rage is there, but it’s for an entirely different reason.)

Clarke releases out a shuddering breath, rubbing her hands over her face, and sighs. “I know,” she says, and her voice is soft. “I know. And… and I just…” She takes another breath. “I didn’t just marry you for shits and giggles or whatever. It wasn’t a _game_ to me, Bellamy. I intend to keep my word, to maintain what I said in those vows.”

He’s right in front of her now, their faces mere inches apart, and he wants to kiss her so desperately he can feel it in his bones.

He wonders how anyone could have possibly broken a girl like this, could have dared come close to the brightness of her sun and then cast her aside like she meant nothing. He can see the cracks in her flesh that this boy left behind, that Clarke glued together with inexpertly applied words of consolation. He cradles her face in his hands, forcing her eyes to his own, and he offers her a tentative smile. “Me too, okay?” he says, and when her lips quirk into a crooked little grin, it makes his chest ache. “Me too.” He wraps her in his arms, and she twists her own around his waist, burying her face in his chest.

(Things are different, and he thinks he likes it.)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay! I was out of the country for almost two weeks. But here's one, and another will probably be up later tonight, so be on the lookout!!!!

It takes them four weeks to establish a routine. They both wake early (a convenient fact, Clarke things, because he makes a _lot_ of noise getting ready. She guzzles coffee while he sips his tea gingerly. (She had made him try coffee, one morning, and the look of utter disgust on his face after the first sip was _totally_ worth it.) They separate in the morning, after this - he to training, she to the Commander - and then they eat a small snack together when they can in the mess hall, pointedly ignoring all of the others’ stares.

It is during one of those brief lunches, chatting normally, that he first mentions his love of the stars.

“You can read the constellations?” she blurts, watching him in awe. Bellamy appears uncomfortable as he pushes his food around his plate, masking his eyes with his longer hair (he really needs a haircut, _Jesus_ \- wait, why was she thinking… _oh shut the fuck up, Griffin, and focus_ ).

“You lived up there, among the stars,” he says as a diversion, and she snorts.

“Yeah, but… but they don’t look the same, up there.” She pauses, and she seems to have his full attention now, eyes searching her face. She struggles to explain. “Like… up there, they’re just these huge balls of fire. We couldn’t even go anywhere near them, because they’re dangerous. But here… here they light up the whole night sky. It’s… it’s _beautiful_ , down here.” When she meets his gaze again, there is a reverent glaze to his eyes, and his lips quirk up in the tiniest hint of a smile. Clarke smiles back, a small, timid thing, and she can feel his eyes on her the rest of the lunch.

After lunch they usually part once more, to more duties - Belllamy trains a few of the younger warriors around then, while Clarke deals with her other leadership responsibilities or shadows Nyko to learn more about their medicinal practices, which she finds fascinating (and also stealthily avoids both Finn and her mother). And then at night they join the rest of the Grounders and the Sky People around the campfires, eating dinner and drinking some of Monty’s moonshine (in very, _very_ small doses), before traipsing back to their tent.

It’s nothing major, but it’s… it’s something. To Clarke. To be domestic, to have a routine. They’ve been married all of a month and yet somehow it feels like longer, like they’ve known each other for decades. Bellamy is outwardly rigid, his cheekbones sharp enough to slice her fingers and his glare cold as ice, and yet when she calls his name, even just to ask him to help translate for one of the other women, his voice is soft and gentle, his presence strong and yet not domineering at her back. She had never been an affectionate person, before, on the Ark - but Bellamy definitely is. She doesn’t even know if he notices, really, but when his fingers ghost across the skin of her wrist, or settle on the small of her back, or even when he loosens up around a few of his friends (and after a few drinks) and he slips his arm around the back of her seat - it’s _comforting_ , somehow. And she likes it more than a little bit.

(She wonders why she feels so _screwed_ in this situation, when she knows they’re married and he’s hers and she’s his and all of that cliche bullshit, but… but she worries, nevertheless.)

(She wonders if he can feel that lightning scalding his flesh when her hand finds his skin, too.)

* * *

 

Bellamy tells stories to the kids, sometimes. It happens mostly at dinner, and always before Clarke gets there. He feels uneasy, for some reason, about her seeing him with the children, so open and unguarded and… _Bellamy_. When she had asked him about the constellations, staring at him like he was a goddamn genius - it was like she saw _him_ , and it was something she keeps doing, creeping under the armor he had worked very, _very_ hard to erect. But he tells them stories of mythology, or of princesses in tall towers. He tells tales of love and loss and bravery, and he loves it, watching them get so worked up about a story he's conceited, watching the awe in their eyes. 

And that night, he decides to tell the tale of a princess trapped in the sky.

(Clarke isn’t here, and she’ll never know, he rationalizes.)

He tells about this princess, and about the way she fought her own dragon and descended to the earth. She was a leader there, not just a princess but a queen, and she met a noble knight - guarded, unsure. And she and this knight were from different places, different people, and they were wary about the other. “The princess was very smart, you see,” Bellamy tells the awed children, their faces lit up by the gentle flames, “and she was not sure if she could trust this knight.”

“So then what happened?” Kahlia, a small, dark-haired child of about four asks.

Bellamy smiles, and says, “They begin to interact, she and the knight, and they become friendly. He tells her about his people, and she about hers, and they are drawn together by circumstances out of their control.”

It’s only then that he notices Clarke hovering just on his periphery, her arms crossed over her chest and her shoulder leaning against a tree, a lazy smile curling at her lips and an almost fondness in her eyes. His mouth goes a bit dry and his heart beats a little faster, because she wasn’t supposed to hear this, to know how this story ends. ( _He_ knows, of course. He’s known since the beginning.)

(Fate fucks him over far more often than not, he realizes.)

Kahlia pipes up again, at that moment. “Bell, come _on_. Do they fall in love? They have to fall in love.”

Bellamy turns his attention back towards the children, and he prays that she can’t understand enough Trigadesleg to comprehend what he’s saying, tries to keep it quiet so she can’t hear. “Of course they do,” he says around a wry smile. “Eventually, you always love your princess.”

Kahlia grins widely at him. Bellamy laughs a bit, rubbing the back of his neck, and calls a little louder, “Okay, guys, that’s it for today. I think some people need to go get some dinner.” The kids all groan, but oblige him, running off to their parents who give him a wave as they collect their children.

It is then that Clarke sidles up to him, taking a seat beside him. He tries not to look at her, watching the flames, until she speaks up. “How often do you do that?” she asks quietly, and he turns to face her. She has a soft expression on her face, something that tugs at his stomach, and then there’s that _thing_ she does with her eyes - where she pulls apart the locks holding the book of himself together and reads him cover to cover, knows without having to ask. (He wonders how she doesn’t see it, yet, the way he’s falling like a goddamn asteroid, destined to shatter into a million pieces once it hits the atmosphere.)

“Pretty much every night,” he admits, giving her a sheepish grin at her raised eyebrow. “Why did you never tell me?” she asks, and she sounds so outraged it pulls a laugh out of him, which earns him a smile, and yeah he’s _so_ fucked.

“I don’t know. I just…” Bellamy sighs and runs a hand through his hair. “It seemed weird, for some reason.”

She nods, slowly, and bites her lip. “How about me? Do I get a story?”

Bellamy stares at her, eyes searching her face, and she lifts an eyebrow again. There’s a glint to her eye and he smirks at her, looking up at the sky pockmarked with stars. “I can manage that.”

“Let’s hear it, then.”

His eyes scan the stars, trying to pick out the story he wants - he can read the constellations like the back of his hand, now, his brain connecting them automatically in his mind. He points to a collection of stars and says, “That one there is Gemini. The story goes that Leda became impregnated both by Zeus, who came in the form of a swan, and her husband, a mortal. She gave birth to twin sons, but one was half-god and therefore immortal, while the other retained his mortality because his father was human.” Clarke follows the line of his finger, cocking her head a bit to the side so it almost rests on his shoulder. They’re so close he can smell the vanilla and earth scent that always accompanies her, can feel the press of her thigh against his own. He swallows heavily. “Myth has it that they are both present in the heavens because when the mortal son succumbed to death, the immortal one was so distraught that he begged Zeus to allow them to share immortality.”

He can feel Clarke’s eyes on him, then, but his own are trained on the sky, and she asks softly, “What did Zeus decide to do?”

Bellamy smiles. “Recognizing the heroism of the two brothers, Zeus allowed the two to reunite in the heavens.” HIs hand lifts and points again. “Do you see the sort of orange one?” Clarke nods. “That’s the immortal son. And then the one next to it is the mortal one.” Clarke watches the sky, and Bellamy watches her face: the way her lips part, just slightly, and soft puffs of air drift out; the way her hair looks like a halo of gold in the firelight.

“I like that story,” she murmurs, and he smiles again.

“Why?”

“Because they loved each other so much,” she half-whispers, “that not even the gods or death could separate them.”

He thinks he stops breathing, briefly. He’s staring at her, a girl born with a crown on her head, a girl who looks like a goddess and has the poise of a queen, a girl with a brain like a genius and the fire of warrior. He’s staring at her, and she’s staring at the stars, and he thinks if he has to pinpoint a moment - has to truly decide where the falling stopped and the landing began - that it was then. He’s staring at her, with the constellations glistening in her eyes and hope in her heart, and she takes his hand into hers without ever looking at him, and Bellamy falls in love.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoo, quick update!!! I'm going to start writing the next one soon, and hopefully we'll get this thing wrapped up in no time. I really hope that their relationship seems to be progressing naturally, so if it's not - please, please let me know. Any & all response is much appreciated.

Despite the intentions of Bellamy and Clarke’s marriage, and despite the fact that they are now allies in the war against Mount Weather, there is still tension between the Grounders and the Sky People. It’s in the little things - the way they won’t make eye contact with one another, the way elbows accidentally knock into ribs. Even Finn, the one who had so desperately pushed for the treaty at the outset, the one who had pled for peace time and time again, is still keeping up his newly-adopted anti-Grounder attitude, and although Clarke isn’t speaking to him, she can feel it in his stares, in the way he eyes Bellamy like a foreign object rather than a person. It’s petty, and it’s ridiculous, and Clarke is fucking _sick_ of it.

Which is what Clarke is telling Raven the next day, as Raven tinkers with a radio and cusses quietly to herself, Clarke pacing around her in exasperation. “It’s like they can’t see that they’re human beings!” she says on a groan, running a hand over her face. “And Finn - _God_ \- Finn is one of the worst. Did I tell you what he said to me the other day?” Raven mumbles something incoherent, so Clarke surges on. “He told me I shouldn’t have married Bellamy,” she half-yells, anger creeping into her tone, and she stops and stands across from Raven at her work table, grabbing the table with both hands to steady herself. “He told me that he didn’t think it was a good idea, that Bellamy is just a monster hell-bent on killing all of our friends, that all the Grounders are.”

At that, Raven looks up, horror coloring her face. “He _said_ that?”

“Something like it, at least,” Clarke sighs, and now the anger is pulsing out of her slowly, replaced by a hollow, dejected feeling. “And Bellamy heard him. And… and it was an ordeal.”

“I’ll talk to Finn,” Raven promises, and then hesitates, as if she’s uncertain about what she wants to say next. She carefully places her wrench and the radio on the table, giving Clarke a look that is far too knowing for her liking. And then, with measured precision, Raven asks, “Clarke, are you more mad about people not getting along with the Grounders, or about people not getting along with _Bellamy_?”

Clarke’s mouth hangs open a bit. “I…” She takes a deep breath and drops her gaze to the table. She knows the answer. And she also knows where Raven is going with this particular line of thought. But… but it’s _hard_ , still. Somehow, the cage around her heart she had firmly built after the days of Finn had crumbled into nothingness, and she didn’t even feel the steel softening. And that fucking _terrified_ her. Bellamy… Bellamy was great to her. He was kind, and smart, and brave, and he looked at her like she was the goddamn sun, sometimes. He didn’t see the fractured pieces of her heart that had been trampled over for far too long, and he didn’t see the way she was barely tied together by a thin rope. He saw _Clarke_ , a Clarke that she wasn’t sure was still able to live inside of her, after all she'd seen, all she'd done.

She thinks of flowers tucked behind her ear and the way his voice murmured to her the history of the universe written in the stars, and she smiles.

Clarke meets Raven’s gaze, and she can tell by her best friend’s face that it’s obvious - that it’s _there_ , carved into the lines of Clarke’s smile, tucked into the gleam of her eyes. Clarke says softly, “He’s a good person. He… He’s been kind to me. And I’m married to him, now, which wasn’t ideal in the beginning, but he’s never…” She trails off, staring at a point above her friends head. She takes a deep breath and tries to explain, _again_. “It’s like… it’s like he _knows_ me, somehow. Without me even having to tell him who I am. Like he can see the whole person, even though he knows the things I’ve done, even though he knows how hard it's been. Somehow… somehow, he makes it okay.” And when Clarke meets Raven’s eyes again, there is a tender smile tugging at her lips and a shine to her eyes, and Clarke knows she understands, even if she herself doesn’t fully, yet.

* * *

 

_Routine procedure._

Wasn’t it always a routine procedure where shit like this happened?

Two thoughts running through his head.

(He wonders if he’s saying these things out loud, if he’s even speaking at all, if anyone is speaking, because all he can hear is his blood thundering in his ears.)

_Thump thump thump. You’re alive you’re alive you’re alive._

_Not for long_ , a very helpful part of his brain reminds him.

Two thoughts running through his head.

One: _Octavia is going to murder me_. He can see it now, really, even through the blurred haze of his vision, can see her face twisted in rage, fire in her eyes and anger in the slap that will reverberate off of his cheek. _Don’t be an idiot, Bell. Be careful, alright?_ And, oh, how Bellamy had laughed. _Routine proceure, O. No worries. Routine procedure._

He is aware of being carried between two people (one of them Lincoln, probably - thank _fuck_ that guy loves his sister), of dragging his legs through the earth because he can’t stand up straight.

 _You’re alive you’re alive you’re alive_.

Two thoughts running through his head.

Octavia: one. Always, always, always.

Two: _Clarke_. He sees her golden hair, he sees the way the sunlight illuminates her face like she’s one of those stars that burns burns _burns_ , like she told him. He sees the moonlight glinting across her blue eyes, so blue, the color of serenity and peace and salvation. He sees her smile, that crooked little thing, like someone broke it and she hasn’t quite figured out how to right the wrong, yet. (He thinks of Finn and his vision blurs again, all that anger laying dormant just beneath the surface.) He sees the way she had stared up at the stars just a few nights ago, his words ringing in her ears and a half-smile on her face, letting the love stories of the gods fill her with the hope this world tore from her quaking hands.

 _Clarke_.

He tries to say something, anything, because that’s who he wants right now - with a fucking _spear_ in his side - he wants her to know, needs her to -

He blacks out just as he hears Lincoln shout, “Someone get me a medic, now!”

* * *

 

_Routine procedure._

He’d complained to her about it that very morning. “They always make me help the younger kids out because they’re apparently terrified of me,” he had muttered, and she’d laughed, taken a sip of her coffee.

“Maybe it’s because they listen to you,” she had said, smiling at him over the rim of her mug, and he’d given her a puzzled look. “Those kids worship you, Bellamy. They would fight and die for you, if you asked.”

He had paused, a slight blush creeping onto his cheeks, and he’d muttered, “Yeah, well, they’re just going to be dying if they don’t learn how to hold a fucking spear, soon.” She’d snorted, and that had been that.

_Routine procedure._

And yet there he is, unconscious and bleeding and half-dead, draped between Lincoln and another man Clarke doesn’t know.

She thinks she might scream. Or cry. Or maybe both.

She sprints forward, shoving people out of the way, and collapses to her knees in front of Bellamy, grabbing his feverish face between her shaking palms. “Bellamy? Hey, _hey_ , can you hear me?” she whispers, rubbing soothing circles on his cheeks. He groans in response, and she lets out a half-sob, turning to Lincoln next. “Bring him to the med tent, and get Nyko. Then we can talk about what the hell happened.” Lincoln nods once, and he and the other man pull Bellamy into the med bay as Clarke clears the table for them to set him on. Nyko prepares the necessary tools while Clarke finally asks Lincoln to explain.

“It was routine procedure,” he says softly, and Clarke wants to throw up. _Routine procedure? Then why the fuck is he bleeding out on my table right now?_ “Some kid… he… he missed the target by a mile. Bellamy had been standing near it, instructing someone else, and… it slipped between his ribs, I think. But then he fell, and he hit his head pretty hard, and...” Lincoln's voice is calm and gentle, and yet she can feel the undercurrent of anxiety running through him the same way it is through her. Clarke nods, and she tries to cease her trembling hands, tries to steady herself.

_You can do this, Griffin. You’re a healer. You can do this._

But Nyko gives her a stern look. “Clarke,” he says gently and quietly, so the others can’t hear. “You can’t operate on him. You’re too involved.”

“I had to operate on all my friends dozens of times,” she tries to argue, her voice imploring, but he shakes his head.

“That’s different.”

“ _How_?”

“You know how.”

Clarke stares at the older man, and she wonders what this man sees in her eyes that she can't even quite identify yet, wonders how, _for the second time in a day_ , someone else has hinted that her relationship with Bellamy is going into territory she hasn't quite yet considered. Her brain and her heart both ache, and it makes her want Bellamy all the more, right now, to give her a sardonic smirk and tell her to stop thinking so damn hard, Clarke, you’ll hurt yourself.

She sighs heavily. “Fine. But I’m not leaving.” Nyko nods and moves to get to work, and Clarke takes a seat beside Bellamy, slipping her hand into his own and interlacing their fingers. “You’re going to be fine, Bellamy. You’re going to be just fine,” she whispers, tracing the line of his jaw with her other hand, trying not to look at the gory mess that Nyko is dealing with. Bellamy groans again, but this time it sounds like a word, and she moves her ear closer to hear him. He whispers it this time, over and over and over, and when she can finally decipher it she has to stifle a sob with her fist.

It’s her name.

He’s saying her name.

“I’m here, Bellamy, I’m right here, okay?” she whispers into his ear, her hand playing with his matted curls, her forehead pressed to his temple. “I’m right here.”

“Clarke,” Nyko says, and she looks up. She can feel the eyes of the others at her back, and Octavia bursts in with Lincoln at that moment, too, but she fixates on Nyko. “This is going to hurt,” he tells her, and she swallows heavily, but nods.

Octavia has moved around to stand at Bellamy’s head, and Clarke squeezes his hand, returning to her position by his temple. She can feel Octavia’s eyes on her, can feel the other girl trying to decipher the situation, but she ignores her, murmuring into Bellamy’s ear, “I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere, alright?” Nyko places the fire-hot knife onto the wound to fight off infection, and Bellamy’s entire body tenses and writhes, a strangled sob tearing itself from his throat, and Clarke clenches her eyes closed, lets the tears fall but doesn’t scream. She holds on to his hand for dear life, prays that he passes out soon to avoid the pain. _Routine procedure, my ass._

He does black out, luckily, and Clarke heaves a broken sigh and wipes hastily at her eyes. Octavia is still staring at her, brow furrowed, and Clarke tries to push that thought away as Nyko continues his work and dresses the wound. It takes what feels like _hours_ , and finally Nyko murmurs, “He should be alright in a few hours. Let him sleep, and then we’ll see how he’s feeling then.” Clarke nods and thanks the healer, and Octavia takes the seat that he had previously occupied.

And together, Clarke watches the way Bellamy’s chest rises and falls, and Clarke thinks her sister-in-law watches the way she draws nonsense patterns on her and Bellamy’s knotted hands.

(She can’t even tell where he begins, and she ends, anymore.)

* * *

 

He wakes up and his head is spinning, and there’s something solid laying against his chest, right where his heartbeat is. Bellamy blinks his eyes slowly and mutters a string of colorful curse words under his breath at the harsh light, but stops immediately when he realizes what’s laying on him. (It’s the hair, really. All that goddamn gold hair.) He breathes her name, and it sounds like a prayer, even to his own ears.

(He hates himself, just a little bit, but she’s asleep, so.)

But then he hears someone else clear their throat, and when he looks to the side, there’s Octavia, sitting with her arms crossed petulantly and a single eyebrow raised.

“Welcome back to the land of the living,” she says dryly, but she keeps her voice quiet so as not to wake Clarke, and Bellamy almost laughs at that.

“What happened?” he asks, shifting just slightly so he’s more comfortable and pulling Clarke with him. His left hand (the one with the ring on his finger, the one that reminds him, constantly, that he’s _married_ ) is trapped, Clarke’s fingers meshing with his. He hesitates on this for a moment before shaking his head and turning back to his sister, whose frown has deepened.

“Some idiot kid missed the target by a long shot and hit you,” Octavia deadpans. She pauses, her eyes slanting to Clarke’s sleeping frame, to their tangled hands on the cot. She swallows as though what she's about to say next physically pains her. “She was a wreck, you know. Nyko was so worried about her operating on you that he told her she couldn’t. And she sat there the whole time, talking to you, trying to calm you down. You kept…” Octavia trails off and finally meets his eyes again, and there’s a knowing look in them, and he realizes that she _sees_ it, now. “You kept saying her name, I think. And she was a fucking _mess_. She eventually passed out, obviously,” she adds with a slight tilt of her lips.

Bellamy nods, and he finds his free hand stroking Clarke’s hair, gently untangling the snags that have formed in the time she’s been sleeping. He knows he should say something, should answer the question his sister deftly slipped in between the lines, but he isn’t quite sure what to say. Octavia speaks for him, though.

“She isn’t one of us, Bell.” Her voice is quiet but vehement, and when he meets her gaze, her eyes are pleading. “She’s still with them, and even though you guys are technically married…”

Bellamy cuts her off with a curt shake of his head. “We can trust her, O. She…” His eyes slide back to Clarke, to his _wife_ , her face placid and serene in sleep in a way it never is during the day. She looks so _young_ like this, so unguarded, and he thinks he sees a bit of the girl from before. The girl he never really knew, but sometimes catches glimpses of, flashes that cross Clarke’s face like light glinting off a mirror. He sighs. “She’s a good person, Octavia. She’s defended me time and time again, and…” At this, Bellamy raises his eyes to Octavia’s softening ones. The words are on the tip of his tongue, ready to tumble from his mouth easily, willingly, and yet he hesitates.

But Octavia seems to understand anyway, perceptive as she is. And so instead of asking him to elaborate, she simply asks, “But _why_?”

And Bellamy looks at Clarke, and he sees the powdery freckles dusting her nose, and he sees the way she subconsciously burrows further into his chest, and he hears her voice - a distant, melodic thing - murmuring _I’m right here, I’m not going anywhere_. With a wry grin, he tells her, “It’s like I told you when you were little, O. Eventually, you always love your princess.”


	6. Chapter 6

Clarke wakes in an unfamiliar space, her head pillowed against something that's  _really_ fucking warm, their legs tangled together, and she doesn't think she's ever been this comfortable in her life. Her hand is locked between the fingers of someone else's, and as she sleepily blinks her eyes open, she notices that their knotted hands are laying on a  _very_ tanned,  _very_ chiseled abdomen. 

And then she remembers yesterday. 

She sits up fully, careful not to wake Bellamy, and as her eyes crawl up his frame and land on his face, she can feel a soft smile overtaking her features. Because there he is, sleeping soundly and  _alive_ and... and he looks so youthful and almost boyish in this state, with his forehead free of worry lines and the slightest upturn to his lips. She reaches up to brush back a few errant curls from his forehead, but then pulls her hand back almost immediately, closing her eyes and releasing a heavy breath. 

She  _knows_ , okay? She knows it's ridiculous to feel embarrassed about her rather emotional state yesterday, and to feel embarrassed about the way the  _guy she's fucking married to_ gives her butterflies all the damn time. She _knows_. But... this  _thing_ with Bellamy, the thing they've been dancing around for weeks now, isn't something she merely take for a test run and then throw to the wind like a fallen leaf if it all goes awry. There's an entire  _alliance_ standing on the shaky shoulders of their marriage, and...

And that fucking  _terrifies_ her.

It's why she keeps holding herself back, why, even now, even after all of the events of yesterday ( _You know how_ _,_ Nyko had said.  _Clarke_ , Bellamy had whispered, her name leaving his lips like salvation, like absolution, a prayer uttered in what he perceived to be his final moments). 

As she extricates herself from his grasp, her heart simultaneously breaks and soars at the way he groans and subconsciously moves towards she space she had just abandoned. She hesitates for a moment beside his bedside, her eyes catching on the simple ring adorning his left hand, on the identical one on hers. 

_This is different._

_How?_

_You know how._

_Clarke._

_I'm not going anywhere._

She shakes her head and slips from the tent flaps wordlessly. She has work to do. 

* * *

Bellamy wakes for the second time, and he's alone, mid-morning light filtering in through the translucent fabric of the tent and coloring the room in a golden hue. His hand gravitates towards the other side of the bed, where he had gently tugged Clarke last night after Octavia had bidden him goodbye (because,  _honestly_ , it was ridiculous for her to sleep like that, her neck cricked to the side), and finds it cold. He frowns and sits up more fully, and he rubs the sleep from his eyes just as Octavia busts through the flaps, a too-bright smile on her face and a tray in hand. 

"What's up, big brother?" She sets the food down on his lap, taking the chair she had occupied the night prior, and kicks her feet up on the bed. "You look like shit."

"Love you, too, O," he mutters, digging in to the food and gingerly sipping at the steaming tea. "Have you seen Clarke?"

Octavia shakes her head, and although he expects her to comment further, she merely adds, "I came and checked on you earlier this morning and she wasn't here anymore." 

Bellamy nods. He chews his food silently, his brain turning.  _Did something happen, to pull her away? Did she leave on her own? Was it_ his  _fault, somehow?_

"Bell, you alright?" Octavia asks, a frown denting her features. 

"Yeah," he manages, flashing her a slight smile. "Yeah, I'm fine." 

_Is she alright?_

He clears his head. He'll think of it later. 

* * *

She  _knows_ she has work to do. It was her rationale when leaving Bellamy this morning, for Christ's sake. She needs to talk to Lexa to discuss their strategy to move forward on Mount Weather, which the Commander has been dancing around for  _weeks_ ; she needs to talk to her mother to assure her that she's alive, or whatever; she needs to see Monty and ask about how the greenhouses are coming along and when they're estimated to be completed. She has a  _shit load_ of work to do, and yet the moment she leaves Bellamy alone she finds herself running straight for Raven's tent, shaking her rudely awake. 

"What the  _fuck_ \- "

"I have a problem," Clarke declares unceremoniously, plopping down at the foot of Raven's bed and crossing her legs. 

Raven grumbles, but still sits up fully, pulling her knees to her chest and raising a single eyebrow as she says, "Yeah, _I know._ "  _  
_

"I mean, it's kind of like - wait, what do you mean, _you know_?"

"Clarke, you're my best friend. Give me some credit. Besides, after all that shit with Finn, did you really think I couldn't read when you were in love with someone?" Her tone is light and there's a smile hovering at the corner of her mouth, but Clarke averts her eyes nevertheless. 

"I'm - I'm not - "

"Clarke Griffin, you are doing what you do best: repress and avoid. And you need to  _stop_ , because it is getting ridiculous. You  _are_ in love with him, and the way I see it, you guys are already married, which makes things  _very_ convenient - "

"But it _doesn't_ , Raven! That's the point!" Clarke shouts. She takes a deep breath, clutching the bridge of her nose between her thumb and forefinger. "It  _doesn't_ , because if this...  _thing_ with Bellamy gets messed up, then an entire alliance is at stake. If it gets messed up, we would probably have to stay married, which is  _so_ fucking uncomfortable I can't even begin to address it. And... and what if he doesn't feel the same way? What if this is all in my head, that I'm fabricating signs that aren't even there? What if - "

" _Clarke_ ," Raven implores. The blonde girl stops and bites her lip, meeting Raven's eyes hesitantly. Raven sighs, grabbing her friend's hands in her own, and forces their gazes together. "Not everything in this world is hell-bent on becoming a disaster. I've been watching you two for the last few weeks, and that boy looks at you like you hung the fucking stars in the sky. Like you're a queen and he's some lowly peasant boy, vying for your affections." 

Clarke tenses and whispers, barely audible, "Eventually you always love your princess." 

She hadn't understood, before - she'd had Lincoln translate for her, because the words were unfamiliar, and when he had, he'd given her a strange look, his brow furrowed. "Bellamy said that?" he asked, and Clarke had nodded. 

"Why?" she'd asked him, 

"No reason." 

She hadn't understood then, but she did now. 

_This is different._

_How?_

_You know how._

_Clarke._

Octavia's eyes, knowing and watchful. 

Niko's sad, sad smile. 

_You know how._

"What?" Raven asks, breaking her concentration. 

"Nothing." Clarke sighs and takes another breath. When she meets her friend's eyes, she can see the understanding written there, can see the  _glee_ that had been missing for so, so long. She gives Raven a tremulous smile and promises, "I'll come talk to you later."

Raven throws her a wink and a smirk as Clarke heads out of the tent. "I sure as hell hope not." 

* * *

Nyko refuses to release him for the entirety of that day, despite Bellamy's very colorfully-worded protests. But after dinner, after night has fallen, the medic finally relents, giving Bellamy a stern look and a clap to the shoulder. "Be more careful, okay, kid?"

"You realize that it wasn't  _my_ fault I got punctured by an arrow, right?"

Nyko laughs and waves Bellamy away, and he slips between the tent flaps and into the crisp night air. 

(She's been avoiding him all day.)

(He pretends he hasn't noticed.)

In the beginning, he had rationalized that perhaps she had work to do, and she would come back later. Perhaps she had promised to eat lunch with her mother, and she'd come back later. But then the day stretched thin, and she still hadn't shown, and the sky was bruising inky blues and purples, and he still had not laid eyes on her. 

He is determined to find out what the issue is -  _determined_ to seek her out, to understand what the  _fuck_ is going on. 

He thought he would have to track her down, that she'd be off, avoiding him still, and yet he nearly falls flat on his face when she's waiting for him back in  _their_ tent, sitting cross-legged on  _their_ bed, her golden hair loose around her shoulders. She's biting her lip, which, _fuck_ ,  _Bellamy, now is not the time for those kinds of thoughts_. She looks dazed and  _petrified_ , and so he moves slowly towards her, letting the flaps fall shut softly. 

"Clarke?" he asks calmly. "Clarke, what's wrong?" 

She shakes her head as though waking from a trance, and the fear is even more visible in her eyes now. Bellamy sits in front of her on the bed, cupping her face in his palms, his eyes roaming over her to make sure she isn't hurt, injured anywhere. "Clarke, _hey_ , look at me. What's wrong?" 

She visibly softens when her eyes meet his, the blue melting into something warmer, more relaxed. She leans into his touch naturally, her fingers dancing over the pulse point of his wrists, and she takes a deep breath before whispering, "We need to talk." 

Bellamy tenses. But Clarke's fingers are digging into his wrists now, grounding him here,  _with her_ , and so he struggles to steady his voice as he murmurs, "About what?" 

She bites her lip again, not meeting his gaze, and the words tumble from her mouth ungracefully, falling like a spilt bag of marbles all around the room. He releases her face from his grasp but her hands stay locked around his arms, as though she's afraid he'll disappear if she lets him go. "Everything that happened yesterday... everything that happened kind of made me think, you know? About us? And about... how things were going?" She is rambling, and he wants to smile, because she's fucking  _adorable_ , but he figures now is  _not the time_. "And... and I think I came to a conclusion, this morning. I hadn't wanted to admit it before, because I was  _scared_ , and I'm still... absolutely fucking  _terrified_ , but..." She sucks in a deep breath and meets his gaze, finally, and there is emotion there he's never seen before, emotion that makes his heart beat a little bit faster. 

"But, the thing is, I think I may be falling more than a little bit in love with you, and I'm not really sure what the  _fuck_ to do about that," she whispers brokenly. 

He is staring at her. He's staring at her, and he can't  _breathe_ , because... because here she is, this beautiful mess of a girl, all that golden hair and golden heart and fierce, undying bravery, and she  _loves_ him. This girl that could have been a goddess, that danced among the stars and called them home. This girl that was such a mystery and yet made perfect sense to him, understood him with equal measure. She  _loves_ him. She loves  _him_. 

"Clarke - " he starts. 

"And if you don't feel the same way, then - then we'll work it out, and, like, I am  _highly_ adept at repression and avoidance as Raven pointed out to me today, and - "

"Clarke."

"I don't want to make you feel like... like you have to settle for me, because we're married. Because I  _know_ it was just a political thing, and - "

She never finishes that sentence, because Bellamy's lips crash down upon hers, sucking her bottom lip in between his two, swallowing down her protest and her surprise. She reciprocates almost immediately, her hands coming up to rest on either side of his neck, sighing contentedly into his mouth. Bellamy pulls away slowly, leaving their faces mere centimeters apart, their foreheads resting against each other. Her eyes are still closed, and her short, warm breaths are tickling his chin, and he wonders why the  _fuck_ he hadn't done this before. 

"Clarke," he whispers slowly, "I've been in love with you for far longer than I've cared to admit." 

Clarke lets out a sound that's half-laugh and half-sob, and her hands tighten. "What if we screw it all up?" she murmurs. 

"What if we don't?" 

She smiles, a soft, _beautiful_ thing, and Bellamy leans forward and captures her lips again. He wants to do this forever, wants to never not be touching her. She moves them so she's laying on the bed while he hovers over her, his knee between her thighs, and she breaks the kiss to tug her shirt over her head. 

" _Fuck_ ," Bellamy mutters, and then he meets Clarke's eye, searches her gaze for any hesitation. "Are you sure?" 

Clarke merely smiles at him again, nodding as she drags his lips back down to hers. 

He makes quick work of her simple bra, throwing it somewhere to his left as he takes each breast in his hands, massaging and teasing until Clarke is groaning into his mouth and her nipple is hard. "Bellamy,  _please_ ," she murmurs, but he merely shoots her a cocky grin as moves his hands to her hips, stopping to slowly remove her sleep shorts and underwear. She is practically  _throbbing_ with heat as he nudges her thighs apart, slipping one finger and then two inside, moving his mouth to a spot below her jaw, and then to the space where her neck and shoulder meet, biting and soothing and sucking the skin there, marking her as  _his his his_ , because he  _can_ now. She is whimpering above him, another  _Bellamy, please,_ falling from her lips, and so he kisses his way down her stomach, relishing in the way she arches into his touch, like he's setting her on fire. 

He looks up at her one last time. 

"Do you trust me?" 

"Of course." (He notices how easily the words fall from her lips. Like it is just  _no big deal,_ like her trust isn't hard-earned.) 

He gives her a smirk before he presses his tongue to her clit, kissing and sucking there, and it's better than he imagined (he wants to do this to her for eternity, wants to hear her muttering his name and _yes please yes_ over and over and over again). She grabs onto his hair - either for support or to urge him on, he has no idea, but he fucking _loves_ it - until she's trembling beneath him, her pleasure rolling over her in waves as her legs go slack. She tugs on his hair and forces him upwards, tasting herself on his tongue as she reconnects their mouths again. 

"Bellamy, please," she whispers a bit brokenly, "I want  _you._ Please." 

He nods, reaching behind him to pull his shirt off as she fumbles with his pants, pushing them down his legs so he can kick them off. He hovers above her, simply soaking in the feel of her skin against his, his hardness pressing into her hip, and when she grabs his cock between her soft hands, he has to suppress a groan into her shoulder. She guides him to her and then grabs his face between both of her hands, pressing their foreheads together. "Ready?" he whispers, and she nods. He pushes in slowly, reveling in the soft gasp that leaves her lips, and readjusting to her - and it feels a bit like coming home. 

Clarke rotates her hips, starting them at a rhythm, and Bellamy moves with her in slow, sure thrusts, their bodies pressing together tightly, sweat prickling along their skin. Clarke latches her lips to his just as she locks her heels beneath his ass to change the angle, and he groans into her mouth, adjusting the pace and placing wet, open-mouthed kisses to her jaw, her neck, her chest, her breasts, as she mutters a string of curse words. " _Fuck_ , Bellamy," she whines as she comes, rippling around him in soft waves, and he kisses her again as he thrusts into her one, two more times, before his own orgasm comes, making his arms weak as he trembles above her. 

He rolls off of her, their sweat-slick bodies welcoming the coolness of the evening air. And then Bellamy tugs Clarke into his side, her head pillow against his shoulder and their legs tangled together so that they are one large knot, impossible to separate. And it feels so normal, so  _natural,_ as Bellamy plants a kiss against the crown of her head, as she murmurs those three words into the heated skin of his chest. 

(Things are different, and he definitely,  _definitely_ likes it.) 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WHOOP, THERE IT IS. This is my first time ever (I repeat: EVER) writing smut, sO PLEASE BE KIND.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took so long for the update! I hope you guys like this one!!! I've finally decided there will be 13 parts to this little thing (roughly, because I'm also trash and may change my mind on a whim). So please leave me your thoughts/critques/concerns <3

When Bellamy wakes, there is something warm and distinctly _blonde_ burrowed into the crook of his neck, her soft breaths fanning out across his collarbone and raising goosebumps along his skin. His arm is looped around her, and he stretches his fingers across the soft skin of her bare back, drawing nonsense patterns there as his other hand comes around to brush away some of the wild, tangled hair crowding her face like a mane.

And - and it takes him a minute, when he sees her face, because… it could have been anyone.

Sure, the hair was a giveaway. He didn’t know anyone else with hair like that. And, okay, _yeah,_ he definitely remembered the night prior, and all that had ensued. But it is also somehow _more_ , waking up and seeing the sleepy placidity of her features, seeing the contented little quirk at the corner of her lips, knowing that it is there because of _him_ , that she is nestled into _his_ side (and not fucking _Spacewalker’s_ , although he’s trying not to let him intrude on his rather grand thoughts right now).

He thinks of solemn vows and the rigidity of Clarke’s back, of those pale blue flowers that made her eyes shine like the sea, of the knotted ring he can see gliding along the skin of Clarke’s back - he thinks of April, and of a sky whose stars glistened brighter than they had in ages, and he thinks of accidental promises, and he wonders how it all led to this one moment. Because he remembers _before_ , too. Clarke had been a staple in his people’s talks long before she had accepted the Commander’s proposal of marriage, long before peace was even up for consideration. He remembers the way he had watched his people go up in smoke at the hands of that tiny tempest, the way they spoke of her in hushed tones and with awe lacing their words - _the Sky Princess, the girl who pulled down the stars_. Now, knowing what he knows, knowing _Clarke_ like he does - now it makes him want to laugh. _Can’t you see?_ he wants to rage, pointing to the sleeping girl pressing her nose into his chest, her leg between his thighs, all softness and gentility and purity. _Can’t you see that she’s just a girl, too? She’s just a person, too?_

He remembers Lincoln's words from just a month and a half ago, the words that he echo along his brain as though they were uttered an entire  _lifetime_ before. 

_She has lost, too, Bellamy. She has lost many. Her people sent her down here to die, and she just wants to know how to save them._

He can't help but wonder what it looks like, that list of those she's loved. If it's shortened considerably in her brief time on the ground, if it's dripping in blood. 

(He wonders if he's on there, now.) 

At that moment Bellamy feels Clarke stirring beside him, a soft groan falling from between her lips that pulls a smile upon his own. She blinks slowly at the morning light perching her chin on his chest and giving him a lazy smile as she wakes. "'Morning," she whispers, and he leans forward and captures her lips with his, moving them so she's spread out below him on their bed, his knee between her thighs. Clarke's hands traipse up his neck to latch onto the hair at the nape of his neck, her fingers light but sure, and he swallows down her contented sigh before pulling away, leaving their foreheads pressed together. 

Her eyes all of a sudden blow wide open, a look of horror spreading across her face, and Bellamy leans back, eyes roaming over her. "What?" he asks worriedly. When she doesn't respond, he starts to move away, and repeats, " _Clarke_? What's wrong?" 

"You just got stabbed by a fucking  _arrow_  and we - we - "

"Clarke."

"Oh  _shit_ that was - that was so  _unsafe!_ Why didn't I - I'm a fucking  _medic_ , and - "

"Clarke, I swear to the gods, please stop talking." At this, her mouth clamps shut, and it draws a little smile upon Bellamy's lips. "I'm  _fine_. See? Stitches are all good. It wasn't really that bad." 

"But you also hit your  _head_ , dumbass." 

"Yeah, and I woke up in the morning still remembering who you were and what we did last night, so looks like that's good as new, too." 

Clarke's eyes search his own, before she heaves a sigh and lets her eyes drop closed for a moment. "I hate you," she groans. 

"I'm  _pretty_ sure," he begins, leaning down again so their lips are just centimeters apart, "that's  _not_ what you told me last night." 

"Fuck you, Bellamy." 

"That you did." 

This time she laughs, at least, and the sound is like goddamn music to his ears, rumbling through his body like a tidal wave when their lips meet again. 

(They don't leave the tent for the rest of the morning.) 

* * *

When Clarke finally,  _finally_ gets out of the tent, it's early afternoon, and she's sore in all the right ways, and there's a smile that can't seem to unstick itself from her face. She'd left Bellamy in the tent with a firm warning to take it easy and to _please, for the love of God, go see Nyko to check on your wound,_ to which he'd rolled his eyes and begrudgingly agreed. She is making her way to the Commander's tent, biting her lip to try and compose herself even the slightest bit, when a hand grasps her upper arm and spins her around fully.

And that's how she's brought face-to-face with ( _fucking hell_ ) her sister-in-law, of all people.

After having just had sex with Bellamy not hours earlier.

_Christ._

“I need to set a few ground rules,” she says without preamble, and Clarke finds herself nodding along without really knowing what was happening, because Octavia, for one thing, terrifies her. And for another, she _is_ her sister-in-law, and they've gotten along for the most part, so this should be fine.  _Really_. 

“One: Bellamy is a sensitive guy, contrary to popular belief, so if you hurt him, I will fucking _end_ you." Clarke nods slowly although her brow furrows together, and Octavia continues, "Two: I’m really happy to finally have another girl in the family, so, uh... welcome. If I haven't told you that already.” Clarke stares, mouth hanging open just a bit.

“Uh,” she stammers, “thanks?” Octavia nods, offering Clarke a small smile, which encourages Clarke to continue on. "Octavia, you know you already... you already gave me this talk, right?"

At this, Octavia's eyes search the face of the smaller, paler girl before her, and Clarke is taken aback by the sheer ferocity that exudes from this tiny warrior's features; she's only a bit taller than Clarke, and much thinner, with cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass and eyes that rage and burn like her brother's. The paint that surrounds her eyes makes them flash a brilliantine blue, and it's _terrifying_. But Octavia gives Clarke a look that exudes a strange combination of pity and mischief as she says, "Yes, well, that was before." 

Clarke's mouth drops open, and as Octavia moves to leave, Clarke calls out, “What did you mean? About the first part?”

Octavia turns, slowly, eyeing the girl in front of her with skepticism. “I meant that when my brother falls, he falls hard. And… and I want him to be happy,” she says, her voice taking on a tender tone, “but I also don’t want him to get his heart broken. So try not to fuck it up, okay?” Clarke nods once, and Octavia smiles again, a bit wider, this time, slipping away and into the tent flaps of the mess hall. 

Clarke stares at the space where she once stood, her heart pounding in her chest, and she ponders the words.

 _When he falls, he falls hard._ _Don’t fuck it up._

She stares at the thin piece of twine on her left hand, and she takes a deep breath.

_I love you._

She has work to do. 

* * *

Octavia comes to visit him, too, because of  _course_ she does.

He's still in bed when she comes into the tent, a few hours after Clarke had departed (much to his chagrin). She quirks a singular eyebrow at him, as though trying to communicate the vast amount of exhaustion she feels with him in that precise moment, and he groans and sits up. " _What_ _,_ O?" 

"You slept with her, didn't you?" 

He almost falls off the bed.

"What the  _fuck_ \- "

" _Didn't you_ _?_ "

" _Yes_ , okay, yes - but why the  _hell_ is that any of your business?" 

Octavia walks over to him and whacks him on the head, and he mutters, "You know I just had a  _serious injury_ , right?" 

"Shut up." She takes a seat across from him on the bed, crossing her legs and placing her hands in her lap as she fixes him with a look that holds far more calmness but a bit more fear. "Bell..." She sighs, running a hand along her intricate braids. "Bell, this isn't a girl you can fuck once and throw away." 

"You think I don't know that?" he asks. "You think I'm not fully aware of what I'm getting myself into?" 

"I don't know, Bellamy," she tells him honestly, her eyes wide and open and  _fuck_ , he hates when his sister does this to him.  _He's_ the one who's supposed to worry about her, not the other way around. 

He thinks of last night, of the way Clarke had looked sitting on their bed in a similar position as Octavia was now, fear clouding her vision and her hair loose and wild around her shoulders. He wishes he could explain to his sister what it felt like, seeing her there, vulnerable and petrified with tears clinging to her lashes for dear life, wishes he could tell  _someone_  how a thousand knives seemed to bury themselves in his chest. He wishes he could explain how it felt that morning, with her skin brushing against his and her lips soft and pliable beneath his own, with her laughter bubbling into his mouth like the sweetest moonshine he'd ever tasted. And he knows his sister understands, in a way, because he remembers her trying to tell him these exact things when she and Lincoln first came together, and yet... it's all the same and entirely different at once, and he is left speechless.

And so he tells his sister the only thing he knows will calm her frayed nerves.

"I'm in love with her, O. I don't... I don't when or how or  _why_ it happened, no matter how much I wish I did. And it's... it's sure as hell not  _convenient,_ given our current state with Mount Weather, but... but it happened. I'm so ridiculously in love with her, and so, yes. Yes, I know what I'm getting myself into." 

Octavia stares at him, her mouth slightly agape and her eyes misting. Her hand clutches at his own tightly, and she smiles at him -  _really_ smiles, one of those rare, blinding ones that always pulls one out of him, as well. "Well, thank the gods for that, then," she whispers. 

(He loves her. He loves her. He loves her.) 

(He loves her, and it feels so damn good, he wonders why he didn't admit it earlier.) 

* * *

“So your sister came to see me today,” Clarke says later that evening, when she returns to their tent. He freezes in the bed, a look of horror on his face, and it’s just so fucking _adorable_ that she laughs loudly. “You don’t have to look like you just walked into the lion’s den, _Jesus_.”

“With Octavia, it’s about the same thing,” he mutters, and she snorts.

He grins at her, and she gets a bit distracted for a moment, forgetting about what she is saying until he seems to remember himself, clearing his throat and asking, “What did she come to see you about?” Clarke deposits her boots by the front of the tent, slipping off her jacket. She clambers over the bed to curl in next to him, her cheek against his chest. 

“Us.”

Bellamy raises an eyebrow, and she feels him swallow heavily. “What about us?”

“Just that you’re _sensitive_ ,” at which he rolls his eyes and groans, “and that she’s happy to have another girl in the family,” at which he smiles, a soft, lazy thing that does things to her stomach. “She also told me not to fuck it up,” she says, scrunching up her nose. He mutters something that sounds like, _she told me the same thing_ , but she can't be sure. Clarke thinks of that word - _family_ \- and it makes her ache a little bit inside. Because she hasn't... she  _hadn't_ had one of those for a very long time, since her father had died and she and her mother had drifted apart. The closest she'd come was with the delinquents, but even that was cut short with the Mountain Men's intrusion. It sends a sharp pang of nostalgia through her, remembering the  _good_ times (the ones where she and her father and Wells and Thelonius would watch reruns of old soccer games, the ones where her father hoisted her onto his back and ran around their small compartment). Bellamy's been quiet for a few minutes, his hand playing with a strand of her hair, before he breaks the silence with a soft laugh. 

"I can hear you thinking from  _here_." 

Clarke sighs and rolls herself over so that her hands are folded on his chest, and she places her chin on top of them. Her eyes scan his face for a moment - the freckles that remind her so much of the stars on a clear night; the dark, dark eyes the color of soot; the hair that's a little too untamed, curling and frizzing at the edges from the summer heat. "I was just..." She sighs. "I was just thinking about family, you know? And how... I haven't really  _had_ one, since my dad got floated. Because it was my mother's fault." Bellamy cocks his head a bit to the side in question, and she sighs again. "I guess I've never told you this story." 

She rolls back so she's pressed firmly into his side, so her face is hidden from his view, and he leans his head against the top of hers as she talks. "The Ark was dying. We were running out of oxygen. And... my dad was an engineer for them, so - so he  _knew_. He knew, and he wanted to stop them, wanted to tell the people so that the Chancellor and the government wouldn't take drastic action." She can feel Bellamy squeeze her tighter, and his physical presence is comforting as she pushes on. "And so my mother... my mother told Thelonius - that was our Chancellor at the time - she told him what my father knew, that my father was going to  _tell_ everyone, and he..." She sucks in a deep, ragged breath, before whispering, "He floated my father into the nothingness of space. His best friend. One of his best engineers. He floated him, and he let him die because of my mother." 

Clarke feels Bellamy's lips press firmly into the top of her head, and he remains quiet, letting the last of her tears fall in silence, before he murmurs, "You know, my mother is the one who taught me about the stars." 

Clarke smiles. "Really?" she whispers. 

"Yeah. When Octavia was just a baby, and our dads had both left - it was confusing, back then, because we were fighting against the Ice Clan and... and so neither of us really knew our fathers. Anyway, our dads had both left, and my mom and I were sitting outside one night, and the stars were beautiful that night. It was completely clear out, so there were hundreds, thousands, as far as the eye could see. And she would point out the different constellations to me, tracing them in the sky with one hand while my baby sister was in the other." Clarke peers up at him, and there's a soft smile on his face. 

"But then, just a few years later, my mother disappeared in the dead of night. Octavia was about six at the time. She took all of her necessary belongings and faded into the darkness, into nothingness, and left her only children to fend for themselves." He clenches his jaw, then, and Clarke's brow furrows. 

"Bell - " 

"No, no, just - I have a point, I promise." He clears his throat. "My mother did some terrible things to Octavia and me. She abandoned us when we were too young to be alone, she was a bit neglectful at times. But I can still remember the good times, too. I can remember sitting outside and watching the sky with her. I can remember her chasing me around the tent and playing games with me. I can remember her teaching me how to first raise and shoot and a bow. Maybe... maybe the important thing isn't that family disappoints us, or hurts us. People make mistakes. And so I don't resent my mother, because although she is the root of one of my worst memories, she is also the root of most of my best." 

Clarke burrows herself into his side, pressing her nose into the skin at his ribs, and whispers, "I'm glad I joined this new family." 

Bellamy smiles and kisses her hair again and murmurs back, "I'm glad you did, too." 

 

 

 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I ETERNALLY APOLOGIZE FOR MY INEPTITUDE AT UPDATES. PLS ENJOY AND DON'T HATE ME

They've been arguing for what feels like hours. 

It  _has_ been, judging by the way the light has changed as people filter in and out of the tent flaps, judging by the probably-obvious slumping of Clarke's shoulders as the day has gone on. Lexa is still stoic and composed opposite her, her posture stiff and unruffled even as Clarke fights her tooth and nail, even as she tries so  _fucking_ hard to make her see why they need a plan.

"We need to get them out as soon as possible," Clarke sighs for perhaps the thousandth time, the words leaving her in one tired huff. She's  _exhausted_ , and she just wants to go to sleep, to curl into Bellamy's side and pretend this goddamn war doesn't exist. If only she could simply close her eyes and block out the memory of those Grounders, hanging upside down as the blood leaked from a tube in their arm like sand through a sieve; close her eyes, and forget the way Anya had looked as she tried to stuff herself into the farthest reaches of her cage, her body marred and her eyes wild like an animal. 

 _How long until chocolate cake turns into hanging them upside down for their blood?_ Bellamy had asked her, once, after one of these meetings. 

_I don't know. I don't know. I don't know._

"Clarke, I am aware of this," Lexa says drolly, and she is brought back to the present.

"Clearly, you  _don't_ ," she sneers, standing up and placing both palms flat on the wooden table between them, where the map of the known area is spread out in front of them, "or else you would be making plans instead of sitting here talking in circles as if that's going to do  _anything_  to save our people. Do you even _care_ about what's going to happen to them? Do you even understand the ramifications of leaving them there for too long?" Lexa is stunned into silence, her eyes widening ever so slightly as Clarke plunges onwards. "Because I do. Because I stood there, and I saw what they were doing, I saw the way they treated your people like fucking savages, and I know what they will do to my people if they're given the chance. And you may be okay with that,  _Commander_ ," the word dripping off her tongue like acid, like it's an acrid taste in her mouth, "but I fucking am not." 

Clarke's face is flaming and her chest is heaving, her chipped, cracked nails scratching at the wood surface when she balls her hands into fists. Lexa appears unfazed by Clarke's outburst, her face remaining placid and rigid, but there is a coldness to her gaze, a harsh light in her eyes. She does not stand up, as Clarke is, but rather leans back, tilting her head up ever so slightly so that the light glinting through the tent flaps cuts diagonally across her face like a scar. Clarke drops her head so that she is staring at the table, now, trying to regain her composure. _Breathe, Griffin. Breathe._

 "Clarke of the Sky People," Lexa says slowly, "I sense your frustration. But I do have a plan." 

Clarke's head shoots up.

"You have a plan? And you didn't think to mention this  _six hours ago_?"

Lexa's lips twitch - the closest Clarke's seen to a smile. "I was unsure about how you would feel about it. But, obviously, you are desperate. I feel I underestimated your willingness to save your people. The...  _lengths_ to which you would go."

The words rub her the wrong way, but Clarke shakes it off, choosing instead to lower herself back into her seat, crossing her arms on the table and leaning forward. "Well, then, Commander, let's get on with it." 

Lexa stands then, in the same practiced and careful manner in which she does everything. She gestures to the stronghold of Mount Weather, to the locations denoted as  _Acid Fog Base_ and  _Control Room_. "We cannot attack Mount Weather until their defenses are lowered. We need the acid fog to be disengaged, and we need a way in."

Clarke has heard this a dozen times, has _said_ it a dozen times. She sighs. "I know, but what does that - "

"We need an inside man." 

"An... an inside man?" Clarke repeats dumbly, turning the idea over in her head. 

"Yes," Lexa continues, her voice picking up speed and reverence, obviously having considered this idea deeply. "Someone who can get in and turn off the acid fog, someone who can tell us what they're up to. Someone who can get in there and assemble your people, and mine, when the time comes." 

Clarke stands as well, her eyes roaming the map and fixating on Mount Weather itself, the wheels spinning around her brain. It was  _brilliant_ , perfect, exactly what they needed. "An inside man," Clarke whispers, grin spreading wide across her features as she looks up at Lexa, who merely offers her a raise of the eyebrows. Clarke stands fully upright, crossing her arms over her chest and tilting her head to the side. "Who did you have in mind?"

Lexa drops Clarke's gaze. "I know someone. But I do not wish to divulge this person until I have spoken to them directly."

Clarke nods. "I understand. But... not to be...  _redundant_ \- but - "

"I know, Clarke. I will speak to this person immediately." 

Clarke nods, glancing one last time at the map, before slipping out of the tent. Lexa's eyes follow her all the way out. 

* * *

 

He is standing by and observing some of the newest recruits, because he is trying his damnedest to listen to Nyko's advice (and, also, he's pretty sure Clarke would murder him if she found out he'd been  _actually_ training), when Gustus comes for him. 

"The Commander would like to see you," he states bluntly, and Bellamy glances at Lincoln, who is now running the training session in his place. Lincoln sends him a quizzical look and stiffens at the sight of Gustus, but nods nevertheless. Bellamy lifts his head in acknowledgment and follows Gustus through the village. He knows Clarke was with Lexa all day, arguing well into what is now early evening - because,  _alright alright_ ,  _yes_ , he stopped by to make sure no one had killed each other yet. That's the only reason he knows that. 

Anyways. Besides the point.

The  _point_ is, where he expects to see wreckage and disdain and a very agitated, frustrated Commander, he instead finds one who is staring at the map on the table as though it has personally offended her, a concerned wrinkle to her brow. Gustus leaves them alone in the tent, and Bellamy moves forward slowly, as he would with prey. "Commander...?" he tries, and her head snaps up at his voice. 

"Oh. Bellamy. Good." She releases a heavy sigh, running a quick hand over the intricate braids holding back her hair.

"Commander, is everything alright?" he asks slowly, coming to stand in front of her across the table, mimicking the position Clarke had occupied just a brief time earlier. The Commander locks eyes with him, her careful mask falling back into place even as her eyes reveal her concern.

"Yes. I believe so." She clears her throat. "Bellamy, as you are very much aware, we are under a severe time constraint in terms of infiltrating Mount Weather. There are a series of things that must happen to guarantee our success. We must first disarm the acid fog, take away the Mountain Men's defenses. And then we need to assemble our people, and the Sky People, inside the Mountain to create an army both on the inside and the outside. In short, we - "

"Need an inside man. You... you need an inside man," he finishes in a near-whisper.

"Yes, Bellamy," Lexa says, and he wonders if that is apology in her tone, or if he is imagining it. "We need an inside man."

"And you want... want  _me_ to..."

"Yes. You will have to leave as soon as possible, should you accept."

"Does Clarke know about this?" He wonders why it matters. Why the answer to this question makes his insides tremble dangerously. 

Lexa halts at that, a confused dent forming between her eyebrows. "Why would - "

"You didn't tell her. That... that I was going to be the one going in." He feels irrationally relieved. (And then he's terrified all over again.)

"I was not sure you would accept," the Commander answers, straightening her back and tilting her head. "I wanted to speak to you first." 

Bellamy nods slowly, his eyes trained on the map in front of him. On the words written in Clarke's neat scrawl:  _Mount Weather. Acid Fog. Entrance._

"I'll do it." 

The Commander's lips tilt upwards, and she opens her mouth to speak just as someone busts through the tent flaps, words already flowing from their mouth: "Lexa, I was just wondering if - "

 _Clarke_. 

 _Fuck_. 

She stares between them, her petal pink lips opened halfway through her sentence, the shock and confusion melting away an instant after it appears, replaced by anger, bright hot and filling her face with a flame he has yet to see. "You have got to be  _fucking_ kidding me," she whispers slowly, looking between Lexa and Bellamy. "You have to be  _fucking_. Kidding. Me," she repeats, louder, her fists clenching by her sides. 

"Clarke - " Bellamy tries, but she holds a finger up.

" _No_ ," she says darkly. She concentrates on Lexa. " _No_! You told me - you told me you were - "

"I never specified who I was speaking with, Clarke," the Commander says with a trained airiness. 

"You  _should_ have! I  _trusted_ you!" 

"Clarke, please," Bellamy murmurs, moving forward and twining their fingers together, tugging slightly on her hand. "Let's discuss this privately, yeah?"

Clarke's eyes flit between him and Lexa, and he can see the terror in her eyes, the fire that has not yet burned out. She glares one last time at Lexa and says, "This is  _not_ over," before following Bellamy out of the tent. 

They are silent until they reach their own tent, and the moment the flaps sway closed, Bellamy says, "Clarke, I - "

" _No_ ," she half-yells, stabbing her finger into his chest. "No, you do  _not_ get to make this decision without me. Not when it affects me as much as it affects you."

"Clarke, she's my Commander! It's my  _duty_!" 

"Fuck that. Fuck that, and fuck this stupid code that you guys seem hell bent on maintaining - "

“Clarke, you’re being _ridiculous_ ,” he yells, running a hand over his face. These are their _people_ they’re talking about. It’s lives at risk, it’s the difference between watching them have blood sucked from their bodies and life.

“No, I’m not! You’re the one who won’t listen to me!” She is pacing the room, and he can feel the anger rolling off of her in waves, the tears threatening to spill over from her eyes. He doesn’t want to make her upset - he can’t _stand_ to make her upset - and yet… and yet here they are, and those tears traipsing down her cheeks  because of him, and _fuck_.

“It’s the only way to save our people, you _know_ that!”

“We’ll find another way then. We… we can send someone else. _I’ll_ go. I know the… I know the place better than you!”

“Absolutely not,” he half-growls, and she throws her hands up in exasperation.

“Why the fuck not? So it’s okay for _you_ to go but not me?”

“Yes!”

“ _Why_?”

“Because… because this is what I do, Clarke! This is what I was born and bred to do. I put my life on the line every _fucking_ day for my people. And this is a rescue mission, not a suicide! I’m trying to save your friends _and_ mine!” He is moving closer to her, trying to make her understand, but she’s backing away, and it feels like a knife to the gut. It feels like he is being burned alive.

( _When did you let yourself get like this, Bellamy? When did you let her infiltrate your bloodstream like this?_ )

It wasn’t even a choice, really. It was inevitable. Undeniable.

She’s shaking her head, biting her lip to keep the sobs at bay, and he wants to pull her into his chest and never let go. “Clarke,” he murmurs, reaching out a hand, but she flinches, and it feels worse than that goddamned spear, feels worse than a thousand knives ever could. “Clarke,” he tries again. “I’m trying to save your people. Why… why can’t that be enough?”

“You _are_ my people!” she screams, and she unfurls her arms from around her stomach to clench them into fists by her sides. “ _You_ are my people, and… and I can’t lose you, too. I _can’t_ …” The sobs are wracking her body, and at that point he clutches her in his grasp, enfolding her into his embrace as if that will protect her from this, protect her from _him_. He buries his face in her hair, breathing in her scent - _strawberries and vinegar, life and death_ \- and tries to memorize this moment. She wraps her arms around his waist, her face pressed into his chest, and he holds her. Holds her until the sobs subside, until she is breathing normally again.

Only then does he pull back, and cradle her face in his palms. She is so _open_ , the tear tracks still streaked across her cheeks in imperfect lines, her eyes broken and pleading, and there is something else, in her stare, something he doesn’t want to think about right now. (Because he’s leaving, and it’s not a suicide mission, but it might as well be.)

“You have to come back to me,” she whispers, and the crack in her voice matches the one in his heart. He presses his forehead to hers and nods, clenching his eyes closed when she lets out a shuddering breath. “You _have_ to.”

“Well,” he says quietly, “if the princess insists.” It earns him the slightest twist of her lips, and for now, that is enough.

“When are you leaving?” she asks, and he realizes that she hasn’t let go of him yet. That her arms are still belted around his waist, as if he is the one thing tethering her to the earth. As if, once she lets go, she’ll simply float away, back into space with her father.

“Soon,” he tells her. “Soon.”

She pulls back just enough to brush her lips against his own, in a way that is both tender and yet forward, her lips conveying the words she cannot find the strength to utter right now. And he kisses her back, licking the seam of her lips until she grants him entrance, their mouths moving slowly and gently, as though each is savoring the other for the moment. He guides them to the bed, both of them discarding clothing as they go - they break the kiss to throw their shirts over their heads, and he thinks her lips taste even better when they are already bruised by his own. She falls back and tugs on his neck to bring him with her, his arms caging her into his embrace. Their lips are barely touching, just their breaths mingling and ghosting across each other, their foreheads pressed tightly together.

"Please, Bell," she whispers. "Please. I just... I just want you."

He slips inside of her slowly, reconnecting their lips as he does so and swallowing her groan. He breaks the kiss again as he sets a rhythm, brushing kisses along her collarbone, worrying the skin at her shoulder with his teeth and then soothing it once more. He wants to mark her, to stain her, to remind her of him while he is off on this mission that isn't a suicide, but might as well be. 

He thinks that perhaps he should have known, that happiness doesn't last forever. At least not for someone like him.

Their bodies are moving quickly as she rotates her hips to pick up the pace ever so slightly. She kisses his jaw, taking the skin between her teeth; she scratches her short nails along the skin of his back, and he hopes they leave marks. (He thinks maybe, she is trying to leave her signature on him, too.)

 _Doesn't she know?_ he wonders.  _Doesn't she know my heart has her name stamped all over it, already?_

He can feel her about to fall over the precipice as her pupils blow wide and her breathing becomes more erratic. And then it happens, the stars blow out her vision and she's trembling beneath him, and it takes him one, two, three more flicks of his hips and he's right there beside her, arms shaking and breath leaving him in short, exhausted pants. He pulls himself out of her once he's regained even a semblance of strength, but she doesn't let go of him, her hands slipping from his neck to his arms, tugging one around her waist as she fits herself against his chest. He holds her tight, letting his breath ghost across the skin beneath her ear, letting himself bury his face in her mane of hair. 

He whisper three little worlds against her exposed flesh, and he hears her murmur them back. 

It is only once she falls asleep that he untangles his limbs from hers and presses one final, firm kiss to her forehead. 

And he leaves. 

 


End file.
